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CHRISTMAS 


AT  GREYCASTLE 


L'Bm    ^\\ce  Duravxci  Flelclj 


'  This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn. 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born. 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring." 


"SECONt)  J^BITIOy 


NEW  YORK  &  LONDON 

P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

^\t  ^nichtrboclicr  |Jrcs8 
1884 


Press  of 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York 


CO 

CO 

en 

UJ 


S  gMtcati0tt 

H 

J  


TO   MY   GODCHILDREN, 
^  Cyrus,  Joy,  Frances,  Alice,  Mary  : 

CD 

*"  TO   THOSE   DWELLING   WITH   US,  IN  THIS  BEAUTIFUL  WORLD,  TO  WHICH  THB 
(»,j  CHKIST  CAME,   "a   YOUNG    CHILD,"    ON    CHRISTMAS-DAY,   SO    LONG 

C-l  AGO  ;  AND  TO  THE  LITTLE   ONE,  WHO   HAS   LEFT  US,  TO  SEEK 

HIM  IN  THAT  OTHER  WORLD,  WHICH  IS  HIS  FATHEr's 
CD 
—^  HOUSE,  AND  HERS  ; — ALL  SHELTERED   ALIKE 

•<t  BY  "  THE  LOVE,  WHICH  ENCOMPASSES 

BOTH   WORLDS    AND    MAKES 

THEM   ONE," 

^  THIS    LITTLE   BOOK    IS    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED 

_) 

it: 

^  CHRISTMAS-EVE,  Alice  Durand  Field 

d 

3 


CONTENTS 


CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE 

CHAPTER 

I. — The  Arrival         .... 
II.— Five  O'Clock  Tea 
III. — The  Christmas  Story 
IV. — The  Christmas-Tree   . 
V. — Christmas  Dreams  Round  the  Yule 


Logs 


PAGE 

9 

12 
21 

30 

36 


CHRISTMAS-DA  Y 

I. — Daybreak 55 

II. — The  Abbey 62 

HI. — The  Shepherd's  Cottage    .         .         -75 

The  Farewell  Letter         .        .        .        '9^ 


CHRISTMAS-EVE 


CHRISTMAS-EVE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE    ARRIVAL 


What  a  cold,  bleak  morning  that  was,  thir- 
teen years  ago,  when  we  left  Edinburgh  by  the 
early  train,  that  we  might  be  with  our  friends 
in  Aberdeenshire  on  Christmas- Eve  ! 

We  stood  a  moment  on  the  steps  of  the 
Caledonian  Hotel,  waiting  for  the  cab. 

"  One  last  look  at  Edinburgh  Castle,"  ex- 
claimed Agnes. 

The  old  fortress  was  austere  and  implacable 
as  on  that  other  morning  far  away  in  the 
romantic  fourteenth  century,  when  the  fol- 
lowers of  the  Bruce  scaled  her  ramparts  and 
9 


I O  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

defied  England  from  her  battlements.  Our 
world  has  known  many  changes  since  those 
feudal  days  when  warriors  turned  crusaders; 
and  knights,  saints  or  robbers ;  when  cathe- 
drals were  building,  and  the  Scottish  minstrel 
was  singing  on  highland  and  moorland  and 
in  banquet-hall,  of  his  country  and  his  king. 
But  Edinburgh  Castle  is  unchanged. 

Our  light-hearted  young  comrade's  senti- 
ment was  short-lived,  however,  and  she  was 
soon  hurrying  us,  and  the  wind  blowing  us, 
into  our  four-wheeler. 

This  combination  of  forces  swept  us  again 
into  the  train. 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  wind  abated,  and 
the  snow-flakes  fell  silently  and  fast. 

We  left  the  train  for  the  carriage,  and  in  the 
late  afternoon  we  found  ourselves  in  a  white 
forest,  and,  through  the  vista  of  snow,  discov- 
ered the  grey  castle,  its  towers  dark  with  ivy, 
and,  at  last,  the  well-remembered  group,  and  a 
sound  of  welcome  as  the  heavy  doors  swing 
back ! 


THE  ARRIVAL.  II 

We  are  in  the  entrance-hall,  once  the  court- 
yard of  the  castle  and  open  to  the  skies,  as 
now  to  the  skylight. 

How  familiar  all  is, — the  background  of 
crimson  and  black  draperies  (the  family  tartan) 
decorated  with  the  armor  of  generations;  and 
above,  the  banners,  furled,  pointed,  and  crossed, 
won  on  many  a  battle-field  ;  around  and  above, 
paintings  of  other  days — strange  scenes  and 
varied  costumes ; — a  picture-gallery  from  pave- 
ment to  dome. 

Before  us,  our  venerable  host,  with  his 
courteous  greeting,  and  Mrs.  Erskine,  with  her 
motherly  solicitudes ;  and  about  us  the  mur- 
mur of  pleasant  voices. 

Our  kind  hostess  enjoins  *'  rooms  and  rest," 
with  affectionate  peremptoriness.  "  You  have 
an  evening  before  you." 

We  follow  her  leading  up  the  broad  staircase 
winding  round  the  court,  within  the  corridors 
which  stand  like  cloisters,  twice  repeated,  round 
a  quadrangle. 


CHAPTER  11. 


FIVE   O  CLOCK    TEA. 


I  WAS  still  in  my  own  room  on  the  sofa, 
warm  in  the  firelight,  dreamily  enjoying  the 
pleasant  memories  of  the  day,  and  the  sweet 
sense  of  a  happy  resting-place  in  the  heart 
and  home  of  an  old  friend.  What  a  refuge 
is  this  ! 

I  was  roused  by  the  voice  of  my  friend. 

"  Our  school-boys  are  arrived,  cold  and  hun- 
gry, and  I  have  ordered  tea  in  the  library  at 
once ;  will  you  come  ?  " 

We  crossed  the  corridors,  descending  the 
staircase  ;  the  pictures  looked  out  from  their 
frames.  So  shadowy  they  were  in  the  winter 
twilight,  those  quaintly-dressed  ladies  and 
their  cavaliers.  Charles  the  Second  smiled 
upon  me,  sardonically,  as  I  passed  ;  and  I 
thought    Princess    Mary   (a    small    person   of 


FIVE   O'CLOCK    TEA.  1 3 

some  six  years  with  a  very  long  skirt  and  a 
very  short  waist)  looked  frightened  and  quite 
unequal  to  the  dethronement  of  a  king  and  the 
conquest  of  a  kingdom. 

From  the  chill  and  silent  shadows  of  the 
corridors,  we  passed  into  the  light  and  life  of 
the  library. 

The  Christmas  logs  burned  brightly  on  the 
old-fashioned  hearth  ;  and  in  their  ruddy  glow, 
Lady  Margaret's  lads,  brown  and  handsome  in 
Highland  kilts,  were  receiving  a  somewhat 
clamorous  welcome  from  the  dogs,  gathered 
about  the  rug.  Their  mother  had  just  ap- 
proached our  aged  host,  who  was  reading  be- 
side the  large  table  loaded  with  books.  She  was 
recounting  the  adventures  of  the  day,  and  he, 
looking  up  from  his  book  and  his  lamp,  smiled 
responsively.  But  who  did  not  smile  for  her, 
whose  joyous  nature  rippled  across  another's 
as  the  sunbeam  shimmers  in  the  stream  ? 

And  for  him — 

Manners  arc  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind. 


14  CHRISTMAS-EVE. 

Miss  Erskine  was  pouring  out  tea,  caring  for 
the  needs  of  each  of  the  party  scattered  through 
the  two  long  rooms  (a  young  girl,  sister  to  our 
school-boys  and  cousin  to  Miss  Erskine,  with  a 
shy  smile,  fair   and    silent,  officiating  as  cup- 
bearer) ;  while  she  follows  with  attention  the 
quiet  talk  of  the  elderly  scholar,  whose  cup  she 
is  now  replenishing.     He  enjoys  her  intelligent 
comradeship  ;  so  does  the  gardener's  blooming 
little  daughter.    One  might  have  seen  the  child, 
an  hour  since,  beside  her  large  basket  of  holly, 
beneath  that  picture,  in  the  recess,  reaching  to 
Miss  Erskine,  who  stoops  from  her  ladder,   the 
green  boughs  with  their  red  berries,  now  clus- 
tering   in    dark    rich    branches  above  the  old 
Italian  frame,  from  which  a  graceful  lady  looks 
out,  her  falcon   on   her  wrist.     She  was  once  a 
happy  child  in  this  house,  on  other  Christmas 
nights,  long  ago.     A  yellow  letter  tells  how  she 
grew  to  womanhood,  and  was  beloved  through 
all   the   country-side,  and  of   her  early  death. 
She  will  never  grow  older,  that  fair  lady.     Her 
youth  and  loveliness  are  immortal. 


FIVE   O'CLOCK    TEA.  1 5 

"You  are  looking  for  the  Archdeacon?" 
said  my  guide. 

"  I  have  only  to  follow  Agnes,"  I  answered. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  said.  "  Your 
youthful  charge  unearthed  and  captured  him, 
when  I  thought  him  quite  absorbed  with  the 
Principal  and  the  '  Siege  of  Paris.'  But  there 
they  are  with  the  children  in  the  drawing-room. 
He  has  forgotten  his  tea,"  she  added  regret- 
fully— "  so  like  him."  He  was  reading  as  we 
drew  near,  and  we  did  not  disturb  him.  The 
children  listened,  we  also,  watching  with  inter- 
est the  play  of  the  delicate  cameo-like  features 
of  that  eager,  expressive  face. 

"  Down  swept  the  chill  wind   from   the   mountain 

peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old  ; 
On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek. 
It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare  ; 
The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 


l6  CHRISTMA  S-E  VE, 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof  ; 

All  night  by  the  white  star's  frosty  gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams  ; 
****** 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter  ; 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  grow  red  and  jolly, 

And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  the  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly  ; 

Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 

Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 

Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 

And  wrattles  and  wrings 

The  icy  strings, 

Singing,  in  dreary  monotone 

A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own. 

Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess. 

Was — *  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless  !  ' 

The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 

As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch  ; 

And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 

The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold. 

Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old 

Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 

Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


FIVE   O'CLOCK    TEA.  1/ 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 

The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly  ; 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate, 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate  ; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail. 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail  ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air. 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas-time  ; 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago  ; 

*  -.v  *  H:  H:  ■:•• 

'  For  Christ's  sweet  sake  I  beg  an  alms  *  ; — 

*  v.-  %  ft  *  -.r 

But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsomc  thing, 
Tlie  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-b!anched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 


1 8  CHRIS  TMA  S-E I  '£. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said  :  '  I  behold  in  thee 

An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree  ; 

Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns, — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns, — 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side  : 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me  ; 

Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  Thee  ! ' 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 

Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 

When  he  caged  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 

And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust ; 

He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 

He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 

And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink  ; 

'T  v.-as  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl, — 

Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  soul. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place  ; 


FIVE   a  CLOCK    TEA.  1 9 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified, 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate, — 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  man. 

His  words  were   shed  softer  uian  leaves   from  the 

pine, 
And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine 
That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon  ; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said  : 
'  Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  ! 
In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail  ; 
Behold  it  is  here, — this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  Me  but  novv-  ; 
This  crust  is  My  body  broken  for  thee. 
This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree  ; 
The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need  ; 
Not  v.'hat  we  give,  but  what  v\-e  share, — 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare  ; 
Who  giveth  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three — 


2  O  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  Me.' 
Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound  : 
'  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall  ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail.' 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  STORY. 


"  It  was  only  a  dream  after  all,"  said  Agnes, 
with  an  accent  of  disappointment.  "  How- 
ever, "  she  added,  philosophically,  "  it  would 
have  been  so  very  dismal  had  it  been  true." 

"  But  why  ?  "  asked  the  Archdeacon,  drink- 
ing mechanically  the  cup  of  tea  which  Mrs. 
Erskine  had  recovered  for  him. 

One  of  the  Highland  school-boys  interrupted  : 
"Agnes  thinks  she  would  not  find  it  cheerful 
in  the  avenue  to-night  under  the  yew-trees." 

"  And,"  added  his  elder  brother,  "  she  would 
suffer  the  additional  anguish  of  the  conviction 
that  you  and  I  were  devouring  her  ices  and 
sweets,"  and  he  pulled  the  fore  paws  of  his  dog 
over  his  knees. 

"  And  what  do  you  think,  Elsie  ?  "  Inquired 
the  Archdeacon  of  a  grave  little  girl,  who  was 

21 


2  2  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

still    leaning   on  the  arm  of    his   high-backed 
chair. 

Elsie  hesitated,  but  at  last  whispered  softly  : 
"  I  do  not  think  Sir  Launfal  felt  the  cold." 

"  But  why  ?"  repeated  her  uncle. 

"He  was  so  happy  about  his  Christmas 
present." 

"  How  do  you  know?"  continued  her  ques- 
tioner. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  the  child  slowly,  "  because 
when  I  was  knitting  you  these  stockings  which 
I  am  to  give  you  to-night,"  and  she  touched 
significantly  the  pocket  of  her  little  apron 
which  had  a  swelled  appearance,  "  I  sometimes 
found  it  a  little  tiresome,  but  then  I  remem- 
bered you  would  be  pleased,  and  then  I  was  so 
happy  it  was  not  tiresome  any  longer,"  Her 
tone  grew  confidential.  "  I  think  Sir  Launfal 
felt  in  that  way  when  he  had  given  the  beggar 
that  Christmas  luncheon  and  saw  him  so 
pleased  and  comforted. 

"  But  what  is  the  Holy  Grail  ?  "  continued 
the  earnest  child. 

"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  fotmd,"  said 


THE   CHRISTMAS  STORY.  23 

the  Archdeacon  tenderly  ; — a  moment  later  : 
"The  Holy  Grail  is  the  cup  which  our  Lord 
blessed,  and  from  which  he  drank  with  his  dear 
friends  at  the  Holy  Supper,  the  sacred  scene 
which  we  commemorate  in  our  Sacramental 
Service.  This  cup  was  lost,  and  there  were 
devout  and  enthusiastic  men  who  believed  that 
to  find  this  cup,  so  associated  with  His  suffer- 
ing and  His  love,  would  seem  to  bring  Jesus 
very  near,  perhaps  face  to  face,  for  one  happy 
moment.  It  was  not  so  strange,  therefore, 
that  this  cup  was  held  so  precious.  This  was 
the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail." 

"  How  blessed  if  one  might  only  seek  it 
now  !  "  sighed  Agnes. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  with 
gravity,  "  seek  always  the  reality  behind  the 
symbol  ;  '  the  inward  and  spiritual  grace  '  be- 
hind '  the  outward  and  visible  sign.  '  Seek  the 
love  which  blessed  the  cup  ;  consider  reverently 
the  sacrifice  which  transfigures  it. 

Behold  it  is  here     *     *     * 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept  indeed, 

In  whatso  we  share  ivith  another's  fieed 


24  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

(but  always  in  His  name).  Remember,  Sir 
Launfal  found  the  Grail  at  his  own  gate  !  We 
meet  the  Christ  when  we  do  what  is  Christ-like. 
We  have  not  far  to  seek  Him,  He  is  already 
with  us.  We  may  leave  Him  but  He  never 
leaves  us.  " 

"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,"  said  the 
Principal  quietly,  as  he  stooped  to  examine 
Miss  Erskine's  winter-garden. 

A  stir  among  the  dogs,  and  a  few  sharp 
barks,  a  bustle  in  the  library,  and  a  tall  gentle- 
man in  a  travelling-cloak  enters,  and  rapidly 
crosses  the  room  to  Mrs.  Erskine  ! 

Ah,  one  has  but  one  father  and  mother! 

The  only  son  returned  safe  from  India,  and 
on  Christmas-eve ! 

Mrs.  Erskine  had  no  words.  La  joie  fait 
peur. 

"  I  should  have  taken  the  garrison  by  sur- 
prise," said  the  young  officer  gaily,  amid  the 
tumult  of  welcome,  "  but  Mary  found  me  out 
and  met  me  at  the  door.  However,  she  kept 
her  secret." 


THE    CHRISTMAS  STORY.  2$ 

"  You  cannot  know,"  exclaimed  Lady  Mar- 
garet, "  all  the  computations  of  trains  and 
times  to  which  she  has  subjected  us  since  the 
telegram  reported  your  ship.  Her  mathemati- 
cal calculations  would  have  exhausted  the 
brain  of  La  Place." 

"  And  yet  it  was  all  in  vain,"  interposed 
Mary.  "  I  did  not  expect  him  until  midnight, 
but  I  was  in  the  Hall  dressing  the  Christmas- 
tree,  when  the  door  fell  suddenly  back  and  he 
was  before  me." 

"  But  where  is  my  father?  "  asked  the  trav- 
eller. His  mother  passed  her  arm  through  his, 
and  they  left  the  room  together. 

"  Do  you  remember.  Uncle  Alfred,  you 
promised  us  another  story?"  asked  little  Ar- 
thur. 

"  What  shall  my  story  tell  about  ?  "  said  the 
Archdeacon,  as  the  child  climbed  upon  his 
knee. 

"A  giant,"  responded  Arthur,  valiantly. 

"Oh,  no!"  urged  Elsie;  "about  Christ- 
mas." 


26  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

"  I  will  tell  you  about  both.  My  hero  is  a 
giant,  and  it  all  happened  in  the  winter-time, 
quite  close  to  Christmas,"  replied  her  uncle, 
reassuringly,  as  the  children  closed  round  him; 
and  within  that  magic  circle,  that  "  Group  of 
The  Blessed,"  he  began  : 

"  There  is  an  old  story,  a  kind  of  Sunday 
fairy  tale,  which  you  may  sometimes  have  seen 
represented  in  pictures  and  statues  in  ancient 
churches  (there  are  two  sculptures  of  it  in 
Westminster  Abbey),  of  a  great  heathen  giant 
who  wished  to  find  out  some  master  that  he 
should  think  worthy  of  his  services — some  one 
stronger  than  himself.  He  went  about  the 
world,  but  could  find  no  one  stronger.  And 
besides  this,  he  was  anxious  to  pray  to  God, 
but  did  not  know  how  to  do  it.  At  last  he 
met  with  a  good  old  man  by  the  side  of  a 
deep  river,  where  poor  wayfaring  people  want- 
ed to  get  across,  and  had  no  one  to  help  them. 
And  the  good  old  man  said  to  the  giant : 
'  Here  is  a  place  where  you  can  be  of  some 
use ;  and  if  you  do  not  know  how  to  pray,  you 


THE    CHRISTMAS   STORY.  2/ 

will,  at  any  rate,  know  ho-.v  to  work,  and  per- 
haps God  will  give  you  what  you  ask,  and  per- 
haps, also,  you  will  at  last  find  a  master 
stronger  than  you  !  '  So  the  giant  went  and 
sat  by  the  river-side,  and  many  a  time  he 
carried  poor  wayfarers  across.  One  night  he 
heard  a  little  child  crying  to  be  carried  over  ; 
so  he  put  the  child  on  his  shoulder  and  strode 
across  the  stream.  Presently  the  wind  blew,  the 
rain  fell,  and  as  the  river  beat  against  his  knees 
he  felt  the  weight  of  the  little  child  almost 
greater  than  he  could  bear,  and  he  looked  up 
with  his  great,  patient  eyes  (there  is  a  beauti- 
ful picture  in  a  beautiful  palace  at  Venice, 
where  we  see  him  with  his  face  turned  up- 
ward, as  he  tries  to  steady  himself  in  the 
raging  waters),  and  he  saw  that  it  was  a  child 
glorious  and  shining ;  and  the. child  said  :  '  Thou 
art  laboring  under  this  heavy  burden,  because 
thou  art  carrying  One  who  bears  the  sins  of  all 
the  world.' 

"  And  then,  as  the  story  goes  on,  the  giant 
felt  that  it  was  the  child  Jesus,  and  when  he 


2  8  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

reached  the  other  side  of  the  river  he  fell  down 
before  Him.  Now  he  had  found  some  one 
stronger  than  he  was — some  one  so  good,  so 
worthy  of  loving,  as  to  be  a  Master  whom 
he  could  serve.  In  later  days  the  thought 
of  the  giant  Christopher  (the  bearer  of  the 
child  Christ)  was  so  dear  to  men,  that  his 
picture  was  often  painted  very  large  on  the 
churches,  so  that  those  who  saw  it  far  off 
should  have  a  pleasant  and  holy  remembrance 
through  the  day,  which  would  save  them  from 
running  into  evil. 

"  But  we  all  may  learn  from  it  two  useful 
lessons,  which  may  keep  us  from  evil  and  lead 
us  into  good. 

"  The  first  lesson  is  that  often,  when  we  know 
not  how  to  believe  or  how  to  pray,  we  at  any 
rate  may  know  how  to  work  for  the  good  of 
others,  and  then  God  accepts  this  as  if  it  were 
a  prayer. 

"  There  is  an  old  Latin  saying,  Laborare  est 
orare, — or  if  we  were  to  turn  it  into  English  we 
should  say: 


THE   CHRISTMAS  STORY.  29 

Good  working  and  good  playing 
Is  almost  like  good  praying  ; 

or,  as  some  one  else  has  said : 

He  prayeih  well  who  lovcth  well 
Both  man.,  and  bird,  and  beast. 

"  We  ought  all  of  us  to  say  our  prayers ;  they 
will  help  us  to  do  what  is  good  ;  but  we  must 
also  all  remember  that  our  prayers  are  of  no 
use  unless  we  strive,  both  in  our  work  and  in 
our  play, 

To  live  more  nearly  as  tue  pray. 

"This  is  one  lesson  which  we  may  carry  with 
us  from  the  story  of  St.  Christopher,  and  one 
which  applies  to  all,  whether  grown-up  people 
or  children. 

"  Pray  and  work,  work  and  pray,  do  as  much 
good  as  you  can,  and  God  will  reward  you  at 
last." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE. 


"  But  there  is  another  lesson,"  continued  the 
Archdeacon. 

"  Excuse  me,  but  Duncan  waits  to  light  the 
tree,  and  Mary  begs  you  will  come  with  the 
children." 

The  slight  figure  of  our  youthful  cup-bearer 
glided  into  the  magic  circle. 

As  Elsie  rose,  her  prominent  pocket  sug- 
gested itself. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  little  girl,  dismayed, 
"  these  stockings  should  have  been  placed 
among  the  presents,  at  the  foot  of  the  tree." 

"Run,  Elsie,"  said  Robert,  good-naturedly, 
"and  you  will  arrive  before  the  audience." 

The  deliberate  Robert  turned  slowly  toward 
the  door,  calling  his  dog,  while  the  Archdeacon 
with  his  little  band,  following  the  white-robed 


THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE.  3  I 

messenger,  descended  the  staircase;  I  lingered, 
looking  into  the  court  below. 

The  banquet-hall  of  the  old  castle  was  never 
more  picturesque,  surely,  not  even  in  its  feudal 
days.  The  tree  glittered  with  its  hundred  stars, 
as  Captain  Erskinc  lifted  his  flaring  torch  from 
the  final  taper.  The  gifts  are  arranged  on  low 
tables  around  the  dark  urn  of  curious  pottery, 
in  which  the  brilliant  tree  is  planted.  Miss 
Erskine  hands  these  to  the  dainty  maiden, 
whose  light  form  fiits  in  and  out  through  the 
"  Cherub  Choir  "  gathered  round  the  tree,  dis- 
tributing her  offerings.  Our  good  fairy  is  pass- 
ing now  into  that  group  in  the  background  of 
household  servants  and  tenants,  I  see  Mrs. 
Erskine  there,  speaking  to  the  shepherd's  wife, 
the  mother  of  the  sick  child.  The  little  mes- 
senger hands  her  a  basket  carefully  packed, 
and  she  is  explaining  its  contents  to  the 
cottager. 

But  where  is  our  host  ? 

I  see  him  at  last  across  the  court  with  several 
gentlemen,    seated    round    the    fire;    they  are 


32  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

talking  earnestly.  But  Lady  Margaret  is  sent 
to  summon  them  to  the  festive  scene.  They 
rise,  but  the  Professor  continues:  "  In  the  pres- 
ent condition  of  German  politics," — Lady 
Margaret  interposes  and  her  eloquence  pre- 
vails ;  the  party  pass  under  my  balcony  upon 
the  staircase,  and  join  the  group  about  the 
tree. 

There  is  Agnes,  on  a  lov/  bench  underneath 
the  armor  and  the  pointed  banners.  Her  girl- 
ish gaiety  pervades  the  circle  of  elder  children 
gathered  round  her.  The  Archdeacon  and  the 
Principal  linger  in  this  radiance  of  youthful 
gladness.     And  I  go  to  seek  it. 

As  I  cross  the  Hall,  little  Alfred  pulls  my 
gown.  He,  with  his  brother,  is  studying  a 
picture  of  a  London  street  through  which  a 
procession  passes,  following  the  Lord  Mayor 
in  his  scarlet  coat. 

"Charlie  says  he  must  be  Santa  Claus," 
thoughtfully  remarked  the  little  fellow. 

I  had  hitherto  regarded  the  Lord  Mayor  as 
a  dignified  and  somewhat  imposing  person. 


THE    CHRISTMAS-TREE.  33 

"Are  you  happy,  Herbert?"  inquired  Miss 
Erskine  of  a  child,  who,  seated  on  the  tiled 
pavement,  was  preparing  his  tin  soldiers  for 
immediate  action. 

"  My  pleasure  is  not  speakable,"  said  Her- 
bert, "  and  I  shall  storm  the  castle  at  once." 

"  Not  a  grateful  return  for  hospitality," 
laughed  Agnes. 

Alfred  had  deserted  Santa  Claus,  and  now 
appeared  with  a  hideous  mechanical  frog, 
which  he  placed  upon  the  pavement.  The 
frog  jumped. 

"  Is  he  not  an  obstinate  frog  ?  "  complained 
Alfred.  "  I  wish  him  to  kick  like  a  horse,  but 
he  will  only  jump  like  a  frog." 

"  He  is  only  a  frog,  Alfred,"  said  the  Arch- 
deacon to  his  little  namesake,  "  and  he  cannot 
be  any  thing  else  ;  but  we  grown  men  and  wo- 
men, in  our  dealings  with  each  other,  some- 
times make  your  mistake." 

Alfred  did  not  listen  to  his  uncle's  philoso- 
phy, but  deserting  the  frog  as  he  had  Santa 
Claus,  was  begging  a  song  of  Agnes;  and  the 


34  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

rich,  young  voice  rose  above  helmet,  lance,  and 
banner,  making  sweet  melody  in  the  old  ban- 
quet-hall. 

"  O  little  town  of  Bethlehem, 

How  still  we  sec  thee  lie, 
Above  thy  deep  and  dreamless  sleep 

The  silent  stars  go  by  ; 
Yet  in  thy  dark  streets  shineth 

The  everlasting  light  : 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  the  years 

Are  met  in  thee  to-night. 

"  For  Christ  is  born  of  Mary, 

And  gathered  all  above, 
While  mortals  sleep,  the  angels  keep 

Their  watch  of  wondering  love. 
O  morning  stars  together 

Proclaim  the  holy  birth  ! 
And  praises  sing  to  God  the  King, 

And  peace  to  men  on  earth. 

"  How  silently,  how  silently, 
The  wondrous  gift  is  given  ; 


THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE.  35 

So  God  imparts  to  human  hearts, 

The  blessing  of  His  Heaven. 
No  ear  may  hear  His  coming, 

But  in  this  world  of  sin, 
Where  meek  souls  will  receive  Him  still, 

The  dear  Christ  enters  in, 

O  holy  child  of  Bethlehem, 

Descend  to  us,  we  pray  ; 
Cast  out  our  sin,  and  enter  in  ; 

Be  born  in  us  to-day. 
We  hear  the  Christmas  angels 

The  great  glad  tidings  tell, 
O  come  to  us,  abide  with  us. 

Our  Lord  Emmanuel  !  " 


CHAPTER   V. 

CHRISTMAS   DREAMS   ROUND    THE    YULE-LOGS. 

The  song  ceased  ;  it  had  floated  to  the 
dim  corridors  above,  and  was  lost  among  the 
shadows  of  the  pictured  dome. 

"  I  wish  it  were  always  Christmas-Eve  and 
not  usually  common  days,"  cried  Herbert. 

*'  Suppose  it  were  always  common  days," 
and  there  were  no  Christmas-Eve,"  suggested 
Robert,  who  enjoyed  the  presentation  of 
dreadful   possibilities  to   the   infant   mind. 

"  Hear  what  cousin  Robert  is  saying," 
groaned  Herbert,  rushing  for  consolation  to 
his  favorite  uncle. 

The  Archdeacon  was  speaking  with  the 
Professor. 

"  The  boy's  light  words  recall  a  strange 
dream  to  my  mind,"  said  the  latter. 

"  O  please  tell  us  about  it  !  "  pleaded  Elsie. 
",6 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  37 

"  Let  us  return  to  the  fire  and  you  shall  hear 
my  dream,"  he  replied. 

They  gathered  round  the  huge  chimney- 
place;  the  gentlemen  drawing  their  chairs 
about  the  hearth,  our  Highland  lads  and  their 
dogs  occupying  the  rug  as  usual,  and  the 
children,  again  closing  round  the  Archdeacon, 
stood  expectant,  when  the  Professor  began  : 

"You  may  not  know,  children,  that  there  is 
a  superstition  in  Germany,  of  which  we  Ger- 
mans hear  in  childhood  from  our  nurses,  that 
the  spirits  of  those  who  are  gone  to  heaven  re- 
turn at  midnight  to  pray  in  the  churches  while 
we  are  sleeping.  (Is  it  because  these  places 
were  sweet  refuges  to  them  upon  earth?)  As 
we  grow  to  be  men  and  women  we  know  that 
this  is  only  superstition,  but  many  things  we 
know  to  be  unreal  return  to  us  in  dreams. 

"  I  was  lying  once,  on  a  summer  evening,  in 
the  sunshine ;  and  I  fell  asleep.  Methought  I 
awoke  in  the  church-yard  on  Christmas- Eve. 
The  down-rolling  wheels  of  the  steeple-clock, 
which  was  striking  eleven,  had  awakened  me. 


3  8  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

In  the  emptied  night-heaven  I  looked  for  the 
sun ;  for  I  thought  an  eclipse  was  veiling  him 
with  the  moon. 

The  gates  of  the  church-yard  stood  open. 
Over  the  whole  heaven  hung,  in  large  folds,  a 
grey,  sultry  mist  ;  which  a  giant  shadow,  like 
vapor,  was  drawing  down.  I  passed  through 
unknovv-n  spirits  into  the  church.  All  the 
spirits  were  standing  round  the  empty  Altar. 

"  Now  sank  from  aloft  a  noble,  high  Form, 
with  a  look  of  uneffaceable  sorrow,  down  to 
the  Altar,  and  all  the  spirits  cried  out :  '  Christ ! 
is  there  no  God?' 

"  He  answered  :  '  There  is  none !  ' 

"Then  came  the  children,  who  had  been 
awakened  in  the  church-yard,  into  the  temple, 
and  cast  themselves  before  the  high  Form 
on  the  Altar,  and  said  :  '  Jesus,  have  we  no 
Father?' 

"  And  He  answered,  with  streaming  tears  : 
'  We  are  all  orphans,  I  and  you ;  we  are  with- 
out Father.' 

"  Then  I  awoke.     My  soul  wept  for  joy  that 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  39 

it  was  all  a  dream,  and  that  I  could  still  pray 
to  God  ;  and  the  joy,  and  the  weeping,  and  the 
faith  on  Him  were  my  prayer. 

"■  And  as  I  arose,  the  sun  was  glowing  deep 
behind  the  full  purpled  corn-ears,  and  casting 
meekly  the  gleam  of  its  twilight  red  on  the 
little  moon,  which  was  rising  in  the  east  with- 
out an  aurora  ;  and  the  birds  were  singing  and 
little  children  playing,  all  living,  as  I  did,  be- 
fore the  infinite  Father;  and  from  all  nature 
around  me  flowed  peaceful  tones  as  from  dis- 
tant evening  bells." 

The  Professor  was  silent.  The  faces  of  the 
little  ones  expressed  only  baby  wonder.  The 
elder  children  were  thoughtful. 

Then  the  Professor  said  :  "  No  experience  of 
my  life  has  brought  before  me  so  vividly  as  this 
dream,  the  desolation  of  a  life  without  God. 
If  my  dream  had  been  true,  children,  there 
would  be  no  Christmas-Eve  any  longer." 

"  We  are  not  orphans,  but  children,"  said  the 
Archdeacon  earnestly  ;  "  children  of  a  Father 
who  is  unchangeable. 


40  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  kfiow 
That,  though  I  perish.  Truth  is  so  j 
That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
What  'er  I  do,  Thou  dost  not  change. 
J  steadier  step  7vhen  I  recall 
That,  if  I  slip.  Thou  dost  not  fall." 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  Principal,  that  He 
never  deserts  us,  but  we  may  desert  Hhn.  Do 
you  remember  the  dream  of  New-Year  night 
by  the  Professor's  favorite  Richter?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Archdeacon,  "  but  recall  it 
if  possible  for  the  children." 

"  The  Professor  will  tell  the  story  better 
than  I,"  said  the  Principal,  appealing  to  the 
latter,  who  consented,  and  opened  thus  the 
German's  dream  : 

"  An  old  man  stood  on  New-Year  night 
at  the  window,  and  looked  up  with  a  gaze 
of  fixed  despair  to  the  stars,  the  Paradise 
above,  and  down  on  the  still,  pure,  white  earth, 
a  Paradise  below.  In  this  beautiful  world 
to-night  he  alone  seems  a  joyless,  sleepless 
wanderer. 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  4 1 

"  He  seems  to  see  at  his  feet  a  grave  in 
which  lie  buried  the  rich  treasures  of  his  Hfe 
(its  gifts,  its  opportunities),  laid  there  year  after 
year,  faded  and  wasted.  He  has  kept  only  a 
shrivelled  soul,  a  withered  body,  and  a  broken 
heart. 

"  His  beautiful  youthful  days  wandered 
about  to-day  like  ghosts,  and  drew  him  back 
to  the  bright  morning  when  his  father  first 
placed  him  at  the  parting-way  of  life.  The 
one  path,  the  path  of  duty,  is  difificult,  and 
leads  upward  across  the  hills,  but  at  last  into 
a  peaceful  land,  wide  and  fair,  of  purple  har- 
vests and  golden  sunshine,  and  guarded  by 
angels.  The  other  path  is  easy,  but  leads 
downward,  always  downward,  away  from  the 
sky  and  the  sunshine,  down  into  the  dark 
abysses  of  sin,  where  are  the  mole-hills  of  crime, 
and  where  the  angels  never  come. 

"  Alas !  it  was  this  sad  path  he  had  chosen 
long  ago,  and  to-night  he  stands  alone,  gazing 
into  the  grave  at  his  feet,  at  the  buried  treas- 
ures of  his  youth,   his  manhood,  and  his  old 


42  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

age.  He  cannot  endure  this  anguish,  and  he 
cries  with  unspeakable  sorrow:  '  O  God,  give 
me  back  my  youth  !  Place  m.e  again  at  the 
parting-way  with  my  father,  that  I  may  choose 
once  more  ! ' 

"  But  his  father  and  his  youth  were  long  past. 
He  saw  a  star  fly  from  heaven  and  in  the  fall 
glimmer  and  die  out  upon  the  earth.  '  Such 
am  I,'  moaned  his  poor  heart,  gnawed  by  the 
tooth  of  repentance, 

"In  the  midst  of  the  struggle  the  music  for 
the  New  Year  flowed  suddenly  down  from 
the  tower  like  a  far-off  church-song.  He  was 
gently  moved ;  he  looked  around  the  horizon 
and  over  the  wide  earth,  and  he  thought  of 
the  friends  of  his  youth,  who  now,  better  and 
happier  than  he,  were  teachers  of  the  earth, 
fathers  of  happy  children  and  noble  men,  and 
he  said:  '  Oh  !  I  might  also,  like  you,  sink  to 
sleep  this  New-Year  night  with  dry  eyes,  if  I 
had  so  willed.  Ah  !  I  might  have  been  happy, 
you  dear  parents,  if  I  had  fulfilled  your  New- 
Year  wish  and  teachincr.' 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  43 

"  He  could  endure  it  no  longer  ;  he  covered 
his  face,  and  hot  tears  fell  on  his  aged  cheeks. 
Then  he  cried  :     '  O,  my  lost  youth,  return  ! ' 

"  And  it  returned  ;  for  he  had  only  dreamed 
so  frightfully  on.  New-Year  night  ;  he  was 
still  a  youth.  Only  his  errors  had  been  no 
dream  ;  but  he  thanked  God,  that  he,  still 
young,  could  turn  around  in  the  unworthy  path, 
and  seek  that  upward  road  across  the  hills, 
which  leads  at  last  into  a  peaceful  land,  wide 
and  fair,  of  purple  harvests  and  golden  sunshine 
and  guarded  by  angels." 

"What  a  grisly  dream!  "  said  Miss  Erskine 
from  behind  the  Principal's  chair. 

Her  duties  done,  she  had  joined  the  circle  at 
the  fireside, — the  modest  maiden  in  waiting,  as 
usual. 

The  young  ofificer  with  his  mother  drew  near 
the  Archdeacon,  and  I  caught  Lady  Margaret's 
voice  in  animated  conversation  with  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"  Let  us  dwell  in  thought  rather  upon 
the  presence  of   Christ   than  His  absence,  on 


44  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

this  His  birthnight,"  said  our  venerable  host, 
gently. 

"You  are  right,"  warmly  responded  the 
Archdeacon.  "The  first  dream"  (turning  to 
the  children)  "  showed  us  how  sad  it  would  be 
if  God  were  to  leave  one  of  us  ;  and  the  second, 
how  very  sad  if  one  of  us  were  to  leave  Him. 
Now  I  will  tell  you  a  dream  which  shows  us 
that  we  need  never  be  separated  from  Him; 
and  how  happy  that  is!  A  friend  of  mine 
dreamed  this  dream,  and  he  has  written  a 
beautiful  poem  about  it.  I  will  begin  in  my 
own  words. 

"  Last  Christmas-Eve  began  drearily ;  the 
fog  was  dense,  and  the  air  in  the  house  so 
heavy,  that,  as  the  evening  drew  on,  my 
friend  turned  into  the  street  with  an  old 
comrade  for  a  fresh  breath. 

"They  turned  toward  the  Embankment, 
seeking  the  air  from  the  river,  and  crossing  a 
crooked  street,  fell  in  with  a  group  of  trades- 
people of  the  poorer  sort,  dirty,  and  some- 
times a  little  clamorous,  who  were  gathering 
about  a  queer  little  chapel. 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  45 

"  The  friends  entered  with  them  :  the  men 
shuffled  ;  the  women  gossiped  audibly  at  inter- 
vals ;  the  babies  cried.  Then  the  clergyman 
opened  the  Bibk  and  read. 

"  '  His  voice  is  intolerable,'  said  my  friend  to 
his  companion. 

"They  had  waited  to  hear  a  part  of  the 
sermon. 

"  '  Oh  !  let  us  escape,'  he  urged  impatiently, 
'  from  this  vulgar  crowd,  and  this  stupid  man 
prosing  over  commonplaces.' 

"  And  they  turned  abruptly  from  the  door. 
So  still  it  was  without,  and  so  beautiful  in  the 
moonlight !  The  fog  was  gone,  and  the  ground 
covered  with  fresh-fallen  snow. 

"  But  One  followed  from  the  chapel,  and  as 
He  crossed  the  church-yard  path,  the  friends 
saw  His  garment  white  in  the  moonlight. 
Then  they  knew  it  was  the  Chrrist,  and  remem- 
bered that  the  '  Beautiful  One  in  white  gar- 
ments '  '  condescends  to  men  of  low  estate.' 

"  They  were  humbled,  recalling  how  scorn- 
fully they  had  turned  from  these  poor  folk  and 


46  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  FE. 

their  simple  ways.  I  will  tell  you  my  friend's 
feeling  in  his  own  language.  These  are  his 
words,  and  he  i-s  speaking  of  Christ. 

"  '  I  remembered,  He  did  say, 
Doubtless,  that  to  this  vv-orld's  end, 
Where  two  or  three  should  meet  and  pray, 
He  would  be  in  the  midst,  their  friend.' 

"  Then  he  knew  that  he  had  displeased  the 
Master,  who  has  told  us  that  he  forever  listens 
to  the  '  deep  sighing  of  the  poor,'  and  he  saw 
the  white  garment  vanishing.  The  Master 
turned  from  him,  and  in  his  sorrow  and  contri- 
tion he  prayed  thus : 

"  '  But  not  so,  Lord  !     It  cannot  be 
That  Thou  indeed  art  leaving  me — 
Me,  that  have  despised  Thy  friends. 
Does  my  heart  make  no  amends  ? ' 

"  The  Master  listened  and  accepted  his 
prayer.     My  friend  writes  thus  about  it  : 

*'  *  God  who  registers  the  cup 
Of  mere  cold  water,  for  His  sake 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  47 

To  a  disciple  rendered  up, 
Disdains  not  His  own  thirst  to  slake 
At  the  poorest  love  was  ever  offered  ; 
And  because  it  was  my  heart  I  proffered 
With  true  love  trembling  at  the  brim, 
He  suffers  me  to  follow  Him.' 

"  Then,  in  his  dream,  my  friend  followed, 
clinging  to  the  hem  of  the  Master's  garment. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  be  separated  from 
Him,  that  he  must  follow  Him  '  whithersoever 
He  goeth.'  He  dreamed  that  they  passed 
through  the  air  together,  and  he  found  himself 
in  Rome,  before  St.  Peter's.  I  continue  the 
story  in  his  words  : 

And  so  we  crossed  the  world  and  stopped. 
For  where  am  I,  in  city  or  plain. 
Since  I  am  'ware  of  the  world  again  .? 
And  what  is  this  that  rises  propped 
With  pillars  of  prodigious  girth  ? 
Is  it  really  on  the  earth, 
This  miraculous  Dome  of  God  } 
Has  the  angel's  measuring-rod 
Which  numbered  cubits,  gem  from  gem, 


48  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

'Twixt  the  gates  of  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Meted  it  out, — and  what  he  meted, 

Have  the  sons  of  men  completed, — 

Binding,  ever  as  he  bade, 

Columns  in  this  colonnade. 

With  arms  wide  open  to  embrace 

The  entry  of  the  human  race. 

— What  is  it,  yon  building, 

Ablaze  in  front,  all  paint  and  gilding, 

With  marble  for  brick,  and  stones  of  price 

For  garniture  of  the  edifice  ? 

Now  I  see  ;  it  is  no  dream  ; 

It  stands  there  and  it  does  not  seem  : 

Forever,  in  pictures,  thus  it  looks, 

And  thus  I  have  read  of  it  in  books 

Often  in  England,  leagues  away, 

And  wondered  how  these  fountains  play, 

Growing  up  eternally 

Each  to  a  musical  water-tree.' 

"  It  was  Christmas-Eve  in  the  Cathedral,  and 
the  service  had  begun  ;  my  friend  takes  up  the 
story  thus : 

"  *  And  I  view  inside,  and  all  there,  all, 
As  the  swarming  hollow  of  a  hive, 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  49 

The  whole  Basilica  alive  ! 

Men  in  the  chancel,  body,  and  nave. 

Men  on  the  pillar's  architrave, 

Men  on  the  statues,  men  on  the  tombs.' 

'*  My  friend  listened 

"  '  To  the  silver  bell's  shrill  tinkling, 
Quick  cold  drops  of  terror  sprinkling 
On  the  sudden  pavement  strewed 
With  faces  of  the  multitude.' 

"  And  he  was  again  inclined  toward  harsh 
criticism ;  but  he  felt  in  his  hand  the  hem 
of  the  white  garment,  and  saw  the  Master  pass 
through  the  kneeling  multitude.  I  will  describe 
in  his  own  words  what  followed  : 

'"Yet  I  was  left  outside  the  door. 

Why  sat  I  there  on  the  threshold-stone, 

Left  till  He  return,  alone 

Save  for  the  garment's  extreme  fold, 

Abandoned  still  to  bless  my  hold  ? 
****** 

And  joyously  I  turned,  and  pressed 
The  garment's  skirt  upon  my  breast.' 


5  O  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

"  My  friend  continues  : 

"  '  My  heart  beat  lighter  and  more  light  ; 

And  still,  as  before,  I  was  walking  swift, 

With  my  senses  settling  fast  and  steadying. 

But  my  body  caught  up  in  the  whirl  and  drift 

Of  the  vesture's  amplitude,  still  eddying 

On  just  before  me,  still  to  be  followed. 

As  it  carried  me  after  with  its  motion. 
****** 

Alone  !  I  am  left  alone  once  more 
(Save  for  the  garment's  extreme  fold, 
Abandoned  still  to  bless  my  hold) — 
Alone,  beside  the  entrance-door 
Of  a  sort  of  temple, — perhaps  a  college.' 

"  He  found  himself  in  the  hall  of  a  German 
university.  The  Professor  was  lecturing  to 
the  students,  and  he  said  somewise  things  ;  but 
the  foolish  things  so  weighed  upon  my  friend 
that  he  was  beginning  to  think  there  was  neither 
truth  nor  help  to  be  found  here,  when  the  White 
Garment  passed  by,  and  he  knew  that  the  Com- 
passionate One  had  found  here  something 
worthy  of  His  presence. 


CHRISTMAS  DREAMS.  5  I 

"  My  friend  followed  Him  out  into  the  moon- 
light (it  was  still  Christmas-Eve)  thinking  of 
Him, 


"  '  When  He  trod 


Very  Man  and  very  God 
This  earth,  in  weakness,  shame,  and  pain, 
Dying  the  death  whose  signs  remain  '  ; 

and  he  knew  at  last  that  the  Christ  who  died 
for  all,  lives  for  all. 

"Then  he  awakened  and  found  himself  still 
in  the  little  chapel,  where  he  had  fallen  asleep 
during  the  sermon," 

The  Archdeacon  paused,  but  soon  added : 
"  Whenever  we  are  inclined  to  criticise  harshly 
those  who  differ  from  us,  who  do  not  think  as 
we  do,  or  perhaps  pray  as  we  do,  or  live  as  we 
do,  let  us  remember  this  story  ;  and  that  if  we 
wish  to  live  near  to  Jesus,  never  to  be  separa- 
ted from  Him,  we  must  be  always  tolerant  in 
our  judgments,  wide  and  tender  in  our  sympa- 
thies ;  never  forgetting  that  we  all  are  alike 
cihldren  of  one  Father.      Thus  only  is  it  possi- 


5  2  CHRIS  TMA  S-E  VE. 

ble  to  follow  '  the  blessed  steps  of  His  most 
holy  life.' " 

The  dressing-bell  rings,  and  the  ladies  obey 
its  summons.  The  gentlemen,  also,  are  re- 
minded of  dinner,  and  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions, and  rise. 

The  party  slowly  scatters,  while  the  "  Cherub 
Choir,"  gathered  round  the  Archdeacon,  bids 
its  tender  good-night. 

"  A  child's  '  good-night '  is  a  benediction,"  he 
said,  finding  himself  alone  with  the  Principal. 

The  latter  lifted  a  window  and  stood  silent. 

"Is  the  snow  still  falling? — What  do  you 
see?  "  asked  the  Archdeacon. 

"The  park  in  the  moonlight.  A  purified 
world,"  replied  the  Principal. 

The  Archdeacon  approached,  and  over  his 
friend's  shoulder  looked  out  into  the  night,  and 
after  a  pause  said  only: 

"  The  time  draws  7iear  the  birth  of  Christ'' 


CHRISTMAS-DAY 


53 


CHSISTMAS-DAY. 


CHAPTER    I. 


DAYBREAK. 


Not  yet  daybreak,  but  I  am  already  dressed 
for  the  early  Christmas  service  ! 

I  draw  on  my  gloves,  waiting  for  Agnes  in  a 
queer  little  room,  very  unlike  my  familiar 
quarters  at  Greycastle.  The  freshly-starched 
and  stiffened  neatness  of  the  white  dimity  toi- 
let-table, the  yellow-painted  chimney-piece  with 
its  ugly  mahogany  clock  (whose  big  pendulum 
must  have  belonged  to  the  giant  for  whom 
that  tall  chintz-covered  chair  was  constructed), 
the  colossal  curtained  bed, — all  these  things 
tell  of  a  Highland  inn  of  the  better  class. 

55 


56  CHRISTMAS.DAY. 

The  huge  objects  contrast  curiously  with  the 
smallness  of  the  remaining  details  of  the  room, 
even  to  the  diamond-shaped  window  panes  ; 
from  these  I  watch  for  the  dawn — but  not 
across  the  stately  yews  in  their  winter  garb, 
but  across  a  narrow,  crooked  street  in  the 
quaint  old  town  of , 

We  came  here  last  evening  after  dinner. 

When  the  ladies  were  leaving  the  table,  Mr. 
Douglas  (one  of  a  fresh  instalment  of  guests) 
rose  also,  and  apologized  to  our  host  for  his 
desertion,  but  explained  that  he  had  arranged 

to  take  the  ten  o'clock  train  for ,  that  he 

might  enjoy  the  early  Christmas  service  in  its 
beautiful  Abbey.  The  Archdeacon  eagerly 
proposed  to  join  him.  And  as  we  crossed  the 
Hall  to  the  drawing-room,  Mr.  Douglas,  who 
had  been  my  neighbor  at  dinner,  very  kindly 
invited  Agnes  and  myself  to  be  of  the  party. 
Her  warm  entreaties  decided  my  acceptance, 
and  at  midnight  the  journey  was  accomplished, 
and  we  were  all  comfortably  lodged  in  this 
queer  little  inn. 


DA  Y BREAK.  5/ 

But  Agnes  knocks,  and  amid  her  sweet  but 
somewhat  breathless  Christmas  greetings  we 
seek  our  kind  guides  in  the  sitting-room. 

The  gentlemen  await  us,  and  in  the  grey 
light  we  pass  out  into  the  crooked  street.  Its 
quaint  architecture,  with  its  projections  and 
gables,  was  even  more  picturesque  for  its  dim- 
ness of  outline.  We  followed  its  steep  ascent, 
the  Archdeacon  and  Agnes  leading.  The 
spirits  and  vigor  of  sixteen  told  in  the  elastic 
step  which  pressed  rapidly  on,  and  the  grave 
scholar  kept  pace. 

"  There  is  no  occasion  for  this  haste,"  calmly 
remonstrated  Mr.  Douglas  ;  "  we  do  not  yet 
hear  the  chimes." 

I  welcomed  this  opportunity  to  enjoy  more 
leisurely  the  scene  and  my  companion,  and  we 
fell  back,  soon  losing  sight  of  the  ecclesiastic 
and  the  child. 

The  elderly  Highland  Laird  had  interested 
me  greatly  in  former  years,  and  he  seemed  an 
old  friend.  He  had  arrived  the  previous  evening, 
just  before  dinner,  and  while  we  were  awaiting 


5  8  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  V. 

his  appearance  in  the  drawing.room,  the  Arch- 
deacon iiad  said  :  "  He  is  so  spiritual  that  I 
'  cannot  incarnate  him.'  Last  week,  when  to- 
gether at  Loch  Roy,  in  our  midnight  talk,  *  the 
star  shone  through  him,  and  I  expected  him 
to  disappear  at  cockcrow.'  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  interrupted  Miss  Erskine  ;  "  he  is 
only  a  dear  mystic." 

This  morning  he  was  inclined  to  be  silent, 
but  I  remember  he  once  repeated  half  aloud  : 

"  //  yesus  came  to  carih  again, 

And  walked  and  taught  in  field  and  street^ 
Who  would  not  lay  his  earthly  pain 
Low  at  those  heavenly  feet  ?  " 

Another  bend  in  the  crooked  little  street 
with  its  gables  and  projections,  and  we  recog- 
nized at  a  short  distance  in  advance  the  clear- 
cut  outline  of  Agnes's  dark  costume. 

Her  youthful  bearing,  her  bloom,  and  the 
undimmed  brightness  of  the  girlish  face,  now 
turned  to  listen  as  the  Archdeacon  speaks,  con- 
trasted touchingly  with  the  frail,  bent  figure  at 


DA  Y BREAK.  59 

her  side,  with  its  traces  of  suffering  and  sor- 
row, its  shadow  of  advancing  years,  and  the 
chastened  expression  of  the  sensitive  features. 

They  are  now  just  before  us  ;  and  in  the 
stillness  it  is  impossible  not  to  hear  his  words. 
He  is  referring  to  the  conversation  of  the  pre- 
vious evening,  and  alluding  to  the  rule  incum- 
bent upon  those  of  King  Arthur's  knights  whose 
privilege  it  was  to  guard  the  Holy  Grail.  "  Its 
meaning  is,"  he  said,  "  the  keeping  of  the  heart 
and  life  aloof  from  whatever  is  unworthy  of  one 
to  whom  a  sacred  trust  has  been  committed. 
This  is  your  first  communion.  You  will  find  in 
the  coming  years,  as  these  sacred  experiences 
repeat  themselves,  that  their  sweetness  and 
helpfulness  depend  much  upon  just  this  rule  of 
life.  What  I  wish  for  you  is  this,  that  you 
should  live  in  the  peace  of  God.  Seek  this 
peace  not  only  as  an  occasional  refuge  in  trou- 
ble, but  as  an  abiding  'covert  from  the  stormy 
wind  and  tempest  of  this  world.'  " 

We  all  met  at  the  summit  of  a  steep  street, 
descending   to    a   mediaeval   gate   of    massive 


6o  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

stone,  a  fragment  of  the  old  wall,  which, 
grimy  with  age,  forms  a  rugged  frame  for  the 
picture  opening  beyond,  of  a  wide  moor 
encircled  by  hills. 

It  is  a  pale  earth,  but  now  the  mountains 
blush  with  a  tender  glow  from  the  heavens. 

"  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are 
the  feet  of  him  that  bringeth  good  tidings, 
that  publisheth  peace  !  "  said  Mr.  Douglas. 

We  were  leaving  the  town,  or,  more  correctly, 
skirting  the  suburbs,  when  we  passed  under 
the  feudal  gate.  Here,  the  road  turns  at  right 
angles  toward  the  bridge's  graceful  arch.  The 
broad  river  (a  crystal  pavement  this  winter 
morning)  encompasses  the  precipitous  cliff  and 
its  forest  of  alabaster. 

Among  the  pines  and  firs  of  the  bleak  rock 
above  are  scattered  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey's 
monastic  days — its  palace  and  precincts — but 
its  solemn  Norman  Nave  remains,  and  the 
beautiful  Gothic  Choir,  and  above  all  rise  the 
square  Western  towers  toward  the  fair  morn- 
ing skies. 


DA  YBREAK.  6 1 

The  day  dawns,  and  from  the  glorified  East 
float  golden  clouds.  They  seem  a  band  of  Fra 
Angelico's  angels,  and  through  the  keen, 
frosty  air  comes  down  to  us  from  the  lofty 
belfry  the  glad  music  of  the  Christmas  chimes. 


CHAPTER   II. 


THE   ABBEY. 


We  had  climbed  the  parapet,  having  crossed 
the  ravine  by  a  path  rarely  traversed,  as  the 
usual  approach  to  the  Abbey  is  from  the  op- 
posite or  Northern  side  of  the  town.  This 
is  why  we  were  quite  alone  in  the  cloisters 
while  the  steps  leading  to  the  great  Western 
doors  were  thronged. 

It  was  so  calm  and  beautiful  that  we  lin- 
gered, reading  sometimes  the  inscriptions 
telling  of  those  who  walk  here  no  longer. 

As  we  turned  toward  the  church,  Mr.  Doug- 
las said  to  the  Archdeacon  :  "  The  Nave  was 
built  by  the  Northmen,  and  it  is  indeed  a  fit- 
ting temple  for  the  sea-kings.  In  those  noble 
aisles  one  can  almost  hear  the  warriors  singing 
their  Te  Deiim  after  the  victory." 

He  ceased  when  we  entered  the  Nave  by  a 
62 


THE  ABBEY.  63 

small  gate  opening  from  the  cloisters.  The 
Western  doors  were  still  closed  upon  the  crowd 
v/ithout. 

Here  all  is  silence.  Grim  knights  are  turned 
to  stone  and  sleep  upon  their  tombs  ;  marble 
countesses  rest  in  a  long  repose.  An  empty 
saddle  and  a  broken  lance  hang  beneath  that 
feudal  canopy  of  bronze,  above  a  soldier's 
grave,  but  they  also  are  immovable. 

Do  the  long  vistas  of  grey  columns  stretch 
on  forever  ;  and  the  round  arches,  are  they 
eternal ? 

There  is  no  sound  in  this  still  world  but  the 
music  of  the  Christmas  chimes  in  the  distant 
belfry. 

All  is  pale  and  colorless  in  the  long  aisles  of 
this  grey  Nave  ;  but  beyond,  the  Choir  is  dark 
and  rich  with  carvings  of  dusky  wood,  and  the 
Eastern  window  above  the  Altar  radiant  in  the 
early  sunbeams  v/ith  the  old,  sweet  story  of  the 
youthful  Mother  and  her  Christ-child.  The 
Child  sleeps,  the  Mother  prays,  and  His  angel- 
band  still  linger  in  the  skies. 


64  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  Y. 

But  the  Western  doors  were  drawn  heavily 
aside,  the  crowd  filled  the  aisles, — country-gen- 
tlemen with  their  households,  quaint  dames 
in  their  small,  close  bonnets,  charity-schools  of 
orphan  children,  tradespeople  and  poor  folk, 
with  red-coated  soldiers  from  the  neighboring 
barrack. 

We  passed  on  into  the  Choir  ;  all  was  now 
hushed  in  this  strange  company,  this  motley 
congregation  ;  but  in  the  far  vista  of  the  grey 
Nave  floated  a  song,  and  the  white  robes  of  the 
clergy  and  choristers  wound  among  the  col- 
umns, young  voices  singing  : 

"  Softly  the  night  is  sleeping 

On  Bethlehem's  peaceful  hill  ; 
Silent  the  shepherds  watching. 

The  gentle  flocks  are  still. 
But,  hark  !     the  wondrous  music 

Falls  from  the  opening  sky  : 
Valley  and  cliff  re-echo. 
Glory  to  God  on  high  ! 
Glory  to  God  !  it  rings  again  : 
Peace  on  the  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 


THE  ABBEY,  65 

"  Day  in  the  East  is  breaking  ; 
Day  o'er  the  crimsoned  earth  ; 
Now  the  glad  world  is  waking, 
Glad  in  the  Saviour's  birth  ! 
See,  where  the  clear  star  bendeth 

Above  the  manger  blest  ; 
See,  where  the  infant  Jesus 
Smiles  upon  Mary's  breast. 
Glory  to  God  !  we  hear  again  : 
Peace  on  the  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

"  Come  with  the  gladsome  shepherds, 
Quick  hastening  from  the  fold  ; 
Come  with  the  wise  men  pouring 

Incense  and  myrrh  and  gold  ; 
Come  to  Him,  poor  and  lowly, 

Around  the  cradle  throng  ; 
Come  with  your  hearts  of  sunshine, 
And  sing  the  angels*  song. 
Glory  fo  God  !  tell  out  again  : 
Peace  on  the  earth,  good-will  to  men  ! 

"  Wave  ye  the  wreaths  unfading, 
The  fir-tree  and  the  pine, 


66  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  V. 

Green  from  the  snows  of  winter, 

To  deck  the  holy  shrine  ; 
Bring  ye  the  happy  children  ! 

For  this  is  Christmas  morn  ; 
Jesus,  the  sinless  Infant, 
Jesus,  the  Lord,  is  born. 
Glory  to  God,  to  God  again  ; 
Peace,  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men  !  " 

The  long  procession  entered  the  Choir,  and 
the  clergy  and  the  choristers  passed  into  their 
places  ;  a  silence  followed. 

Then  from  above  the  kneeling  multitude,  a 
calm  voice  said :  "  A  little  child  shall  lead 
them." 

The  organ  and  the  choristers  reply,  in  Han- 
del's music  :  "  For  unto  us  a  Child  is  born, 
unto  us  a  Son  is  given,  and  the  government 
shall  be  upon  His  shoulder  ;  and  His  name 
shall  be  called  Wonderful,  Counsellor,  the 
Mighty  God,  the  Everlasting  Father,  the 
Prince  of  Peace." 

The  voice  again  :  "  All  we  like  sheep  have 
gone  astray.     We  have  turned  every  one  to  his 


THE  ABBEY.  6/ 

own  way,  and  the  Lord  hath  laid  on  Him  the 
iniquity  of  us  all." 

A  single  chorister  sang:  "  He  shall  feed  His 
flock  like  a  shepherd  ;  and  He  shall  gather  the 
lambs  with  His  arm,  and  carry  them  in  His 
bosom,  and  gently  lead  those  that  are  with 
young." 

The  voice  continued  :  "  I  said,  there  was 
no  place  to  flee  unto,  and  no  man  cared  for  my 
soul." 

The  music  answered:  "  Come  unto  Him,  all 
ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  He 
shall  give  you  rest.  Take  His  yoke  upon  you, 
and  learn  of  Him,  for  He  is  meek  and  lowly 
of  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your 
souls." 

The  voice  prayed  :  "  If  thou,  Lord,  wilt  be 
extreme  to  mark  what  is  done  amiss,  O  Lord, 
who  may  abide  it  !  " 

The  sweet  response  floated  to  the  vaulted 
roof:  "Comfort  ye,  comfort  ye,  my  people, 
saith  your  God  ;  speak  ye  comfortably  to  Jeru- 
salem, and  cry  unto  her,  that  her  warfare  is 
accomplished,  that  her  iniquity  is  pardoned." 


68  CHRIS  TMA  S-D.  1  V. 

The  voice  cried  :  "  My  flesh  and  my  heart 
faileth." 

But  a  second  chorister  repHed  :  "  I  know- 
that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  He  shall 
stand  at  the  latter  day  upon  the  earth  ;  and 
though  worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my 
flesh  shall  I  see  God." 

The  earnest  voice  once  more :  "  The  sun 
shall  no  more  be  thy  light  by  day,  neither  for 
brightness  shall  the  moon  give  light  unto  thee, 
but  the  Lord  shall  be  unto  thee  an  everlasting 
light,  and  thy  God  thy  glory." 

Then  the  chorus  of  clergy  and  choristers  an- 
swered :  "  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates  !  and 
be  ye  lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors !  and  the 
King  of  Glory  shall  come  in. 
•'  Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ? 
"  The  Lord  strong  and  mighty,  the  Lord 
mighty  in  battle. 

"  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates !  and  be  ye 
lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors  !  and  the  King  of 
Glory  shall  come  in. 

"  Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ? 


THE  ABBEY.  69 

"  The  Lord  of  Hosts,  He  is  the  King  of 
Glory." 

Then  the  voice  said  :  "  I  will  arise  and  go  to 
my  father  "  ;  and  the  clergy  and  the  choristers 
sang  joyously : 

"  Hallelujah  !  for  the  Lord  God  Omnipotent 
reigneth.  The  kingdom  of  this  world  is  be- 
come the  kingdom  of  our  Lord  and  of  His 
Christ ;  and  he  shall  reign  for  ever  and  ever. 
King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  Lords.  Halle- 
lujah !  " 

The  triumphal  hymn  died  among  the 
arches. 

When  seated,  one  glanced  about  in  search 
of  the  mysterious  voice,  but  the  place  was 
empty,  and  the  number  of  clergy  so  large  that 
one  could  not  trace  it  ;  but  later  in  the  ser- 
vice, .when  we  knelt  for  the  collect,  before 
the  sermon,  that  earnest  voice  repeated  this 
prayer  : 

"  We  beseech  thee,  O  Lord,  pour  Thy  grace 
into  our  hearts  ;  that  as  we  have  known  the 
incarnation  of   Thy  Son  Jesus   Christ  by  the 


70  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

message  of  an  angel,  so  by  His  Cross  and  pas- 
sion we  may  be  brought  into  the  glory  of  His 
resurrection  ;  through  the  same  Jesus  Christ 
our  Lord.     Amen." 

When  we  rose  and  turned  to  the  pulpit,  in 
the  midst  of  the  Choir,  we  found  there  the 
dignified  presence  of  a  man  of  some  fifty 
years.  He  was  at  once  so  thoughtful  and  so 
human  that  one  felt  he  must  surely  help 
others,  if  only  because  he  so  much  wished  to 
help. 

This  was  the  message  he  brought  us : 

"  The  vision  is  yet  for  an  appointed  time, 
but  at  the  end  it  shall  speak,  and  not  lie; 
though  it  tarry,  wait  for  it ;  because  it  will 
surely  come,  it  will  not  tarry." 

He  continued:  "It  seems  to  me  that  it  is 
just  this  conviction  that,  in  this  beautiful 
world,  with  this  mysterious  gift  of  life,  there  is 
a  vision  for  each  one  of  us,  which  gives  enthusi- 
asm to  youth,  but,  alas  !  bitterness  sometimes 
to  the  disappointment  of  mature  life. 

"  There  are  two  questions  on  my  heart  this 


THE  ABBEY.  yi 

morning  for  you  and  for  myself,  and  I  believe 
that  God  has  answered  them  forever. 

"  Is  there  for  each  one  of  us  a  vision,  or  in 
other  words  a  reality,  of  happiness  and  holi- 
ness in  this  life  ?     I  believe  there  is. 

"  Why  then  do  we  so  often  miss  it  ?  I  think 
because  we  can  never  find  it  in  self-seekinsr. 

"  I  ask  you  to  find  it  in  God,  in  the  love  and 
life  and  light  He  revealed  to  you  that  Christ- 
mas-Night long  ago.  And  I  /:nou>  that  it  is 
possible  to  find  it  there. 

"  I  believe  in  the  preciousness  of  life,  because 
Christ  shows  me  that  I  may  live  nobly. 

"  I  am  happy  in  my  life,  because  I  have 
found  a  Friend,  who  is  entirely  worthy  of  my 
faith  and  love,  and  '  I  am  persuaded  that  neither 
life  nor  death  can  separate  me  from  Him! 

"  I  therefore  knozo  the  vision  to  be  a  truth. 

"  There  are  to-day  in  this  church  sad  and  aged 
men  and  women,  who  have  waited  long  for 
this  vision,  for  which  every  human  heart  has 
panted, — in  other  words,  for  happiness.  Here 
are  also  ardent  young  spirits,  who  hope  for  it. 


^2  CHRIS  TMA  S-D.  1  Y. 

"  I  assure  each  one  of  you  that  this  Sacra- 
mental hour  is  '  the  appointed  time,'  and  '  the 
vision  is  surely  come,' — for  Christ  is  come. 
He  is  with  us  this  beautiful  Christmas  morning. 

"  Bring  your  hearts  to  this  Communion  Ser- 
vice, whether  broken  with  sorrow  or  radiant 
with  joy,  and  receive  from  Him  His  Christmas 
gift  of  peace. 

"  One  Christmas-Eve,  about  fifteen  centuries 
ago,  an  old  man  was  praying  alone,  in  a 
strange  and  lonely  place.  It  was  a  cave  in  the 
mountains,  far  away  in  the  land  called  '  Holy  ' 
since  that  holy  night  when  the  Christ-child  was 
born  in  Bethlehem. 

"  St.  Jerome  is  the  name  of  this  aged  man. 
He  was  thinking  that  Christmas-Eve  of  our 
Saviour  as  a  little  child,  just  as  we  are  thinking 
to-day ;  and  this  was  his  prayer :  '  O  Holy 
Child,  I  will  give  thee  all  my  gold.'  This  was 
his  Christmas  offering. 

"  Then  in  the  deep  stillness  of  the  night,  in 
that  solitary  place,  it  seemed  to  him  that  a 
voice  answered  :   '  I  do  not  want  thy  gold  ;  the 


rUK  ABBEY.  73 

heavens  and  the  earth  are  Mine  ;  give  that  to 
My  poor.  But  give  to  Me  thy  sin,  thy  sorrow, 
thy  despair,  and  I  will  give  to  thee  My  peace.' 

"  To  this  gracious  love  and  mercy  I  commit 
you." 

The  preacher  was  silent.  There  was  a  stir, 
and  the  larger  part  of  the  congregation  left  the 
Choir.     The  Com.munion  Service  followed. 

A  "  brooding  calm  "  rested  upon  the  church. 
The  pictured  window  glowed  with  a  fuller  radi- 
ance, and  the  sunbeams  aud  shadows  of  that 
fair  morning  came  and  went  among  the  col- 
umns and  the  arches  and  the  sculptured  saints. 

"  The  exceeding  great  love  of  our  Master, 
and  only  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ,  thus  dying  for 
us,"  was  very  real  that  Christmas  morning. 

"  Before  this  rapture  and  outpouring,  what 
are  we  ?  " 

The  Holy  Service  is  over,  but  while  we  still 
kneel,  the  choristers  softly  chant  : 

"  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart 
in  peace,  according  to  thy  word  : 

"  For  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation, 


74  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  Y. 

"  Which  thou  hast  prepared  before  the  face 
of  all  people  ; 

"  To  be  a  light  to  lighten  the  Gentiles,  and 
to  be  the  glory  of  thy  people  Israel." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   shepherd's   COTTAGE. 

We  were  all  gathered  round  the  luncheon- 
table,  a  party  of  twenty,  in  the  long  dining- 
room  at  Greycastle,  whose  great  windows  look 
upon  the  straight  avenues,  with  their  vistas  of 
aged  trees.  The  stately  and  formal  landscape- 
gardening  suggests  that  of  a  French  chateau,  and 
had  for  me  the  interest  of  a  distant  memory. 

"When  did  you  return?"  inquired  Mr.  Ers- 
kine. 

"  An  hour  ago,"  answered  the  Archdeacon. 
"  We  met  the  train  from  Edinburgh  about 
eleven.' 

"  I  hope  you  enjoyed  the  Abbey  ?  "  continued 
our  host,  turning  kindly  to  Agnes. 

"  It  was  all  beautiful,"  replied  the  young 
girl,  her  cheek  glowing  with  the  rich  rem.em- 

brance. 

75 


1^  CHRTSrAIAS-DAY. 

My  pretty  neighbor  at  the  table  (little  Al- 
fred's mother)  interposed  :  "  I  met  one  of  the 
Canons  the  other  day,  who  mentioned  that  the 
Master  of  St.  Michael's  was  expected,  and 
would  probably  have  a  share  in  the  Christmas 
Services.  Was  he  the  preacher  at  the  early 
Service  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Douglas,  "  he  arrived  last 
evening  from  Oxford." 

"And  you  must  positively  go  to-morrow?" 
interrupted  Lady  Margaret,  with  friendly  re- 
gret, addressing  her  words  to  me. 

"Yes,  there  is  no  reprieve,"  I  answered. 
"  We  must  take  the  '  limited  '  to  London,  and 
meet  the  '  tidal  train  '  for  Paris  the  succeeding 
day." 

"  When  does  your  boat  sail  from  Marseilles  ?" 
continued  my  questioner. 

"  On  Tuesday  ;  indeed  we  have  accepted  an 
invitation  to  dine  with  our  friends  in  Palermo 
on  Monday  week,  and  a  dinner  engagement  is 
inexorable." 

"You  go  to  meet  the  Spring,"  said  the  Prin- 
cipal. 


THE    SHEPHERD'S   COTTAGE.  "J J 

"No,"  smiled  the  Professor,  "this  lady- 
carries  with  her  the  Spring,"  glancing  at 
Agnes. 

"  Will  you  not  go  with  me  this  afternoon  to 
the  Curling  pond?"  asked  Captain  Erskine 
across  the  table,  of  the  Professor.  "Our  High- 
land games  are  novel  to  you,  and  we  have  my 
father's  example ;  he  is  never  absent  at  Christ- 
mas." 

"  My  tenants  would  miss  me,  were  I  not 
with  them  at  their  Christmas  games,"  observed 
our  host. 

A  footman  approached  my  hostess,  saying 
in  a  low  tone  :  "  There  is  a  message  from  the 
shepherd's  cottage,  and  his  wife  begs  you  will 
come.  There  has  been  a  bad  accident,  a  man 
hurt  on  the  railroad,  and  they  have  taken  him 
to  her  cottage." 

"  Say  to  her  messenger  that  I  will  be  there 
within  an  hour,  but  before  he  returns  he  is  to 
stop  for  Dr.  Murray,  explain  every  thing,  and 
ask  him  to  meet  me  at  the  cottage." 

Mrs.   Erskine   exchancred   a  "lance  with  her 


78  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  Y. 

daughter,  who  passed  into  the  seat  of  the 
hostess,  as  she  rose.  Mr.  Douglas  offered  his 
escort.  She  smiled  an  assent,  saying  to  me  : 
"  Come  also,  and  with  Agnes,  and  we  may  have 
a  quiet  talk  returning  over  the  moor." 

It  was  not  long  before  we  all  assembled  in 
the  porch,  my  hostess  with  her  basket  of  restora- 
tives and  appliances,  which  she  usually  carried 
in  her  visits  to  her  sick  tenants. 

We  walked  rapidly  down  the  avenue  of  yews, 
into  the  pale  forest ;  how  cold  it  was  when  we 
reached  the  bleak  moor,  where  the  short  after- 
noon was  already  Vv-aning ! 

"  //  7e'as  the  zvinter  wild,  " 

said  Mr.  Douglas,  drawing  his  cloak  about  him. 

"You  draw  on  your  wraps,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Erskine,  "  quite  as  if  you  were  wrapping  some- 
body else." 

Beyond  the  moor  is  a  sheltered  glen,  where 
in  the  spring-time  a  mountain  stream  sings 
cheerily  in  the  sunshine.  The  rugged  weather 
had  silenced  and  imprisoned  that  happy  little 


THE   SHEPHERD'S  COTTAGE.  79 

brook,  but  we  traced  her  white  scarf  among 
the  firs  and  pines,  until  we  approached  a 
thatched  cottage. 

We  crossed  a  small  paved  court-yard  in  front 
of  the  hut,  and  through  the  tiny  window  panes, 
looked  directly  into  the  kitchen,  bright  and 
warm  in  the  firelight  of  the  old-fashioned 
hearth  opposite.  This  was  a  deep  recess,  fur- 
nished with  stone  benches  on  either  side.  The 
pots  and  kettles  hanging  from  the  crane  were 
the  pride  of  the  good  housewife's  soul.  An 
old  man  occupies  one  of  the  benches,  dividing 
his  attention  between  his  pipe,  his  mug  of  ale, 
and  his  sick  grandchild. 

From  the  dresser  with  its  rows  of  shining 
plates  the  shepherd's  wife,  Mrs.  Ramsay,  is 
taking  a  pitcher.  A  small,  round  face  flattened 
at  the  window  announces  our  arrival ;  and 
from  the  snows  of  the  little  court-yard  we  step 
directly  into  the  warmth  of  the  hearth,  amid 
Mrs.  Ramsay's  curtsies  and  apologies  to  Mrs. 
Erskine. 

"  It  was  a'  sae  sudden  an'  I  didna  ken  whaur 


So  CHRIS  T. )/-  /  S-DA  Y. 

to  turn,  an'  I  hadna  a  minute  to  think,  an'  he 
sae  bad,  an'  nae  tinne  to  lose  ;  an'  I  said  that 
to  my  gudeman,  but  ye  ken,  my  Leddy,  he  is 
a  verra  impeding  mon." 

"  There  is  certainly  no  time  to  lose,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Erskine.     "  Is  the  doctor  here?" 

"  Yes,  my  Leddy." 

"  Take  me  to  him  at  once,  these  ladies  and 
this  gentleman  remain  here." 

Mrs.  Erskine  disappeared  with  the  cottager, 
whom  she  had  silenced  for — -perhaps  five  min- 
utes ! 

We  waited  in  the  kitchen,  and  Agnes,  who 
really  loved  children,  beguiled  the  little  sick 
boy  from  his  grandfather's  arms  into  hers,  sit- 
ting upon  the  bench  beside  them ;  she  was 
soon  singing  the  little  fellow  to  sleep  with  this 
lullaby : 

"  Now  the  sun,  so  weary  growing,  says  :  '  O  let  me 
stay  ! ' 
Goes  to  bed  and  shuts  his  eyes,  and  calmly  sleeps 
away. 

Bye,  bye,  bye,  bye, 


THE   SHEPHERD'S  COTTAGE.  8 1 

My  baby  shall  do  even  so, 

My  darling  still  must  lie. 
Then  the  tree,  that  now  was  rustling,  says  :  '  What 

can  it  be  ? 
As  the  sun  no  longer  shineth,  sleep  I  peacefully.' 

Bye,  bye,  bye,  bye. 

My  baby  shall  do  even  so. 

My  darling  still  must  lie  ; 

Bye,  bye,  bye,  lullaby. 

My  baby  still  must  lie. 

"  Then  the  bird,  so  sweetly  singing,  says  :  '  What  can 
it  be  ? 
Since  the  tree  no  longer  rustleth,  sleep  I  peace- 
fully.' 

Bye,  bye,  bye,  bye. 
My  baby  shall  do  even  so, 
My  darling  still  must  lie. 
"  Then  the  hare,  his  long  ears  pointing,  says  :  '  What 
can  it  be  ? 
Since  the  bird  no  longer  singeth,  sleep  I  peacefully.' 
Bye,  bye,  bye,  bye, 
My  baby  shall  do  even  so, 
My  darling  still  must  lie  ; 


82  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

Bye,  bye,  bye,  lullaby. 
My  baby  still  must  lie. 

"Then  the  hunter,  no  more  sounding,  says  :  'What 
can  it  be  ? 
Since  my  blast  no  hare  upstarteth,  sleep  I  peace- 
fully.' 

Bye,  bye,  bye,  bye. 
Now  the  fair  moon  downward  gazing,  says  :  *  What 
can  it  be  ? 

No  hunter  nigh  ? 

No  hare  doth  spring  ? 

No  bird  doth  sing  ? 

No  tree  doth  sigh  ? 

No  sun  doth  shine  ? ' 
Shall  baby  mine  awake  then  keep  ? — 

No,  no,  no,  no. 

My  darling  doth  its  eyelids  close, 

My  babe  is  fast  asleep  ; 

Bye,  bye,  bye,  lullaby, 

My  babe  is  fast  asleep  !  " 

The  door  at  the  side  of  the  kitchen,  through 
which  Mrs.  Erskine  had  disappeared,  opened. 
She  returned  looking  grave,  and  said  to  Mr. 


THE   SHEPHERD'S  COTTAGE.  S3 

Douglas  in  a  low  tone :  "  This  is  a  bad  busi- 
ness. The  man  is  killed  without  doubt — that 
is,  the  doctor  says  it  is  impossible  to  save  him. 
I  think  he  should  be  told  of  his  condition,  but 
I  should  like  to  have  your  judgment ;  will  you 
see  him  ?  " 

"  What  is  he  like  ?  " 

"  Stolid  and  impenetrable,  but  a  poor  wan- 
derer upon  the  earth,  and  his  sufferings  quite 
dreadful,"  she  answered,  sadly.  "  I  fancied 
him  soothed  by  Agnes's  lullaby,  for  his  features 
relaxed,  and  his  face  was  less  grim  and  blanched, 
but  only  for  a  moment." 

"  Let  us  go  to  him,"  said  Mr.  Douglas, 
and  they  left  us. 

During  our  midnight  talk  in  my  own  quarters 
at  Greycastle,  Mrs.  Erskine  repeated  to  me  all 
that  had  followed  in  the  homely  little  room, 
while  we  waited  in  the  kitchen. 

The  doctor  was  speaking  to  the  sick  man, 
who  heard  nothing  of  their  approach,  as  the 
door  opened  behind  the  bed.  Already  the 
honest    Scotch    surgeon   had   decided   to   deal 


84  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  V. 

frankly  with  the  stricken  man,  whose  helpless- 
ness he  respected. 

"  You  are  very  ill,"  he  began. 

"Can  ye  stop  my  pain?"  interrupted  the 
sufferer,  gruffly. 

"  I  can  do  very  little  for  you,  my  man," 
answered  the  doctor.  "  This  is  a  serious  in- 
jury, and  you  have  not  long  to  live ;  but  if  you 
have  any  messages  for  your  friends,  I  will  do 
my  utmost  to  deliver  them." 

"  There  's  naebody  wha  cares,"  said  the 
dying  man,  briefly,  relapsing  into  his  impene- 
trable silence. 

"  There  is  One  who  cares,"  said  Mr.  Douglas, 

gently. 

Obeying  Mrs.  Erskine's  motion,  the  surgeon 
offered  his  chair  to  the  old  Laird,  and  withdrev/. 

"  Do  you  know  the  love  of  God  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Douglas,  abruptly. 

"  No,"  was  the  only  answer. 

A  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  an  occa- 
sional moan.  The  wounded  man  lay  with  his  face 
to  the  vv-all,  his  eyes  closed,  his  teeth  set,  ghastly 


THE   SHEPHERD' S  COTTAGE.  85 

and  dishevelled  ;  his  shirt  not  only  neglected, 
but  dragged  and  torn  in  the  struggle  of  the 
accident. 

The  stillness  and  solemnity  of  the  darkened 
room  contrasted  strangely  with  the  bustle  and 
glare  in  the  kitchen,  where  we  still  Avaited. 
Here  the  sick  child  cried  miserably.  A  general 
effort  to  quiet  him  resulted  in  an  increase  of 
noise.  He  had  been  disturbed  by  the  attempt 
of  his  excellent  but  very  fussy  mother  to  take 
him  from  Agnes,  and  she  was  now  jogging  him 
upon  her  knee  with  affectionate  activity.  The 
little  fellow  was  by  this  time  almost  distracted, 
when  Agnes  plunged  into  the  mel6e,  captured 
and  carried  him  in  her  strong,  young  arms  to 
the  window,  out  of  the  smoke  of  his  grand- 
father's pipe,  the  chatter  and  bustle  of  his 
voluble  parent,  and  the  heat  of  the  huge  fire 
of  Highland  peat. 

She  looked  through  the  small  window  panes, 
amusing  the  fretted  child  with  the  scene  in  the 
little  paved  court-yard  without.  There,  through 
the  snows,  in  the  winter  twilight,  drew  near 


S  6  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  Y. 

the  child's  father,  the  shepherd,  his  dog  follow, 
ing,  bringing  with  him  the  sick  lamb,  which  has 
a  place  at  the  hearth  at  night. 

"Tak  care  o'  this  weakly  ane,  will  ye, 
father  ?  "  he  said,  entering. 

The  arrival  was  a  fortunate  one  for  Agnes's 
purpose,  indeed  for  us  all ;  and  the  poor  babe 
forgot  his  sorrows,  as  we  all  do  sometimes, 
in  tending  a  dumb  creature. 

But  soon  the  child  wearied,  and  with  his 
little  hand  upon  her  cheek,  drawing  Agnes's 
attention  from  the  sick  lamb  to  himself,  plead- 
ed, "  Sing,  sing." 

Seated  in  a  high-backed  chair,  the  lamb  at 
her  feet,  and  the  infant  on  her  shoulder,  the 
young  girl  sang  to  a  pathetic  melody,  not 
unlike,  in  its  monotonous  wail,  certain  of  the 
slave  songs  one  associates  with  the  Southern 
States  of  America. 

The  hymn  found  its  way  into  the  sick-room  ; 
let  us  follow  it  there. 

"  There  were  ninety  and  nine  that  safely  lay 
In  the  shelter  of  the  fold. 


THE   SHEPHERD'S   COTTAGE.  8/ 

But  one  was  out  on  the  hills  away, 
Far  off  from  the  gates  of  gold — 
Away  on  the  mountains  vv-ild  and  bare, 
Away  from  the  tender  Shepherd's  care. 

"  '  Lord,  Thou  hast  here  Thy  ninety  and  nine  ; 
Are  they  not  enough  for  Thee  ? ' 
But  the  Shepherd  made  answer  :  "T  is  of  mine 
Has  wandered  away  from  me  ; 
And  although  the  road  be  rough  and  steep 
I  go  to  the  desert  to  find  my  sheep.' 

"  But  none  of  the  ransomed  ever  knew 
How  deep  were  the  waters  crossed  ; 
Nor  how  dark  was  the  night  the  Lord  passed 
through 
Ere  He  found  His  sleep  that  was  lost. 
Out  in  the  desert  He  heard  its  cry — 
Sick  and  helpless,  and  ready  to  die. 

"  '  Lord,  whence  are  those  blood-drops  all  the  way 
That  mark  out  the  mountain's  track? ' 
'  They  were  shed  for  one  who  had  gone  astray 
Ere  the  Shepherd  could  bring  him  back.' 


88  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

'  Lord,  whence  are  Thy  hands  so  rent  and  torn  ? ' 

*  They  are  pierced  to-night  by  many  a  thorn.' 

"  But  all  through  the  mountains,  thunder-riven, 
And  up  from  the  rocky  steep, 
There  rose  a  cry  to  the  gate  of  heaven  : 
'  Rejoice  !     I  have  found  my  sleep  ! ' 
And  the  angels  echoed  around  the  throne  : 

*  Rejoice,  for  the  Lord  brings  back  His  own  !  '  " 

Early  in  the  song  the  sick  man  had  turned 
his  head  on  the  pillow  to  listen.  He  was 
quieter,  but  looked  haggard  and  exhausted. 
The  hymn  culminated  in  a  peal  of  thanksgiving, 
and  Agnes,  absorbed  in  thought,  sang  on  re- 
gardless of  consequences.  But  the  babe  and 
the  lamb  were  both  awakened,  and  the  lamb 
bleated  piteously.  The  ear  of  the  sick  man 
caught  the  sound.  Mrs.  Erskine  said  his  face 
turned  grey,  and  his  dark  eyes  were  misty  and 
wandering  when  he  muttered :  "  It  's  cauld 
here  for  a  laddie  out  on  the  muir  a  winter  night 
wi'  the  sheep,"  and  he  shivered  ;  "  I  think 
daddy  might  hae  ta'en  me  hame  to  supper." 


THE   SHEPHERD'S   COTTAGE.  89 

"  I  don't  like  this,"  said  Mrs.  Erskine  to  Mr. 
Douglas  ;  "  no  more  hymns  to-night,  and  the 
doctor  must  be  at  his  post."  She  left  the 
room,  but  returned  with  him  directly. 

But  the  sick  man  attempted  to  rise  in  his 
bed,  and  shouted  him  back.  "  I  '11  hae  nane 
but  this  mon  :  he  is  a  mon  o'  God,"  he  cried 
excitedly,  clinging  to  T-.Ir.  Douglas  ;  and  for  the 
next  hour  the  old  Laird  was  the  only  person 
who  could  soothe  his  paroxysms  of  delirium. 
The  doctor  then  returned  and  said  firmly  : 
"  Remedies  must  be  used  to  reduce  the  fever, 
and  at  once." 

The  scene  was  growing  painful,  and  Mrs. 
Erskine,  finding  she  could  no  longer  be  of  use, 
left  the  room. 

I  was  indeed  thankful  to  see  her,  for  I  was 
worn  threadbare  by  the  shepherd's  wife.  As 
my  hostess  entered,  Mrs.  Ramsay  was  con- 
cluding this  sentence  :  "I  was  sae  weak.  Miss, 
when  they  brought  him  in,  that  ye  wad  hae 
wondered  how  muckle  I  could  do,  and  Ramsay, 
puir  mon,  is  nae  gude  when  he  's  wanted.     Sae 


go  CHRISTMAS-DA  Y. 

a'  fa's  on  me,  though  I  ne'er  speak  o'  it.  Ram- 
say is  verra  gude  to  mind  the  sheep,  but  in  the 
hame, — " 

Mrs.  Erskine  appeared  and  effaced  the  shep- 
herd's wife. 

She  drew  me  to  the  window  and  said  :  "  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  What  a  Christmas  for 
that  poor  waif !  I  have  little  heart  for  a  state 
dinner,  but  we  must  return  as  soon  as  Mr. 
Douglas  can  be  spared." 

"  But  is  he  useful  in  the  sick-room  ?  "  I  asked, 
involuntarily. 

"The  doctor  can  do  nothing  without  him," 
she  replied.  "For  the  last  hour  that  dying 
man,  in  his  wanderings,  has  clung  to  the  dear 
old  Laird  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  like  that  of  a 
grateful  hound.  It  is  not  so  much  what  he 
does  in  the  sick-room,  as  what  he  is,  and  this 
poor  fellow  trusts  him.  But  you  have  had  a 
long  afternoon,"  she  continued  ;  "  how  has  it 
passed  with  you  ?  " 

"  In  admiration  of  Agnes,"  I  replied.  "  First 
for   her   success   in   putting   her  boy  and  her 


THE   SHEPHERD'S  COTTAGE.  9 1 

lamb  to  sleep,  and  latterly  for  her  success  in 
awakening  them." 

Mr.  Douglas  himself  now  returned  from  the 
sick-room,  very  grave. 

"  Can  we  be  of  further  service  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Erskine. 

"  No,"  he  answered  ;  "he  is  unconscious,  and 
the  doctor  will  remain  through  the  night  ;  but 
yes,  he  asks  you  to  deliver  this  note  at  his 
house,  and  to  send  the  wine  from  the  castle." 

Agnes  laid  her  sleeping  child  to  rest,  and  we 
all  turned  from  the  warm  little  kitchen  out 
into  the  cold  of  the  snows,  the  solitude  of  the 
moor.     Around  and  above. 

The  night  with  her  stillness, 
The  stars  with  their  calm. 


THE   FAREWELL   LETTER. 

One  soft  Southern  noon,  about  two  months 
later,  I  lingered  upon  the  terrace  of  our  hotel 
in  Palermo,  which  looks  upon  the  Mediterra- 
nean.    The  hotel  had  been,  in  an  earlier  cen- 


92  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  V. 

tury,  the  palace  of  an  Italian  noble,  and  this 
terrace  is  a  fragment  of  decayed  magnificence. 
Its  pavement  is  of  richly  colored  tiles,  and  the 
tall,  decorated  vases  are  graceful  with  the 
drooping  aloe. 

I  watch  beside  their  long  leaves  for  Agnes, 
who,  with  her  governess,  is  gone  to  the 
banker's  in  search  of  our  English  letters,  hav- 
ing heard  from  a  servant  with  a  Moorish  face 
and  turbaned  hair,  that  the  boat  from  Naples 
arrived  last  night.  She  is  not  among  the 
groups  passing  through  the  palms  upon  the 
shore. 

The  picturesque  costumes  of  the  peasants 
from  the  valley,  bringing  their  olives  and  fruit 
to  market,  mingle  curiously  with  the  conven- 
tional dress  of  the  English  tourists,  and  here 
and  there  move  the  black  cassock  and  dark 
broad  hat  of  the  priest. 

But  now,  the  old  Sicilian  guard,  in  his  crim- 
son vest,  and  with  the  bearing  and  features  of 
an  Arabian  Sheik,  turns  from  his  monotonous 
patrol,  and  drawing  near  to  my  post,  upon  the 


THE  FAREWELL  LETTER.  93 

terrace,  hands  me  a  munificent  bunch  of  roses 
and  daisies.  "  For  the  EngHsh  Signorina," 
but  missing  Agnes,  he  withdraws  disappointed. 
Shelley's  picture  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  might 
have  been  sketched  from  this  terrace. 

"  The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  might ; 

The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 
The  winds',  the  birds',  the  ocean-floods'. 
The  City's  voice  itself,  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

"  I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown." 

But  Agnes  approaches  through  the  sculptured 
Arch  (whose  Italian  name  is  The  Happy  Gate). 
She  turns  beside  the  fountain,  radiant  in  the 
sunbeams,  follows  the  yellow  wail  about  which 


94  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

cluster  the  luxuriant  vines,  and  with  a  smile  of 
recognition,  waves  her  letters. 

She  passes  swiftly  among  the  scattered 
groups  upon  the  shore,  and  disappears,  for 
she  must  enter  the  hotel  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  quadrangle.  The  little  organette 
plays  its  pleasant  jingle,  and  a  Sicilian  girl  sings 
"  Santa  Lucia.'' 

But  Agnes  steps  upon  the  terrace  from  a 
window  at  the  back. 

"Behold!"  she  exclaims,  counting  her  let- 
ters. "  Seventeen  between  us,  and  among 
them  the  long-expected  missive  from  Grey- 
castle, — Mrs.  Erskine  herself !  May  I  not  read 
it  aloud  ?  " 

She  offers  me  a  chair,  but  choosing  for  her- 
self a  place  upon  the  Algerine  rug  at  my  feet, 
begins  the  letter. 

Greycastle,  Feb.  iZih. 
My  Dear  Friend  : 

How  long  it  seems  since  you  left  us,  and  how  I 
deplore  my  silence  !  but  I  will  not  dwell  upon  the 
hindrances.  You  know  that  I  would  gladly  have 
written  earlier  had  it  been  feasible. 


THE  FAREWELL  L.ETTER.  95 

Your  fragrant  violets  enabled  us  to  trace  you  as 
far  as  Nice,  and  I  hear  that  you  are  now  happy  in 
your  "  Earthly  Paradise,"  Palermo.  To  Agnes, 
her  Winter  must  be  a  chapter  from  the  "  Arabian 
Nights,"  and  how  she  must  enjoy  the  Carnival  ! 

Now  for  ourselves. 

Our  festivities  were  long  since  concluded,  and  our 
daily  life  has  renewed  its  even  tenor.  Mr.  Erskine 
is  much  in  his  studio,  Mary  so  busy  with  her  schools, 
and  Duncan  absent  with  his  regiment  in  Ireland. 
And  for  our  Christmas  group.  Lady  Margaret  is  re- 
turned to  Hertfordshire,  and  her  school-boys  to 
Harrow  ;  the  Principal  to  his  university,  and  the 
Archdeacon  to  the  cloisters  of  his  Cathedral,  while 
the  Professor  is  gone  to  Dresden. 

But  it  is  of  our  dear  old  Laird  and  the  sick  man 
in  the  shepherd's  cottage  that  I  wish  to  write  to- 
night. That  afternoon  you  left  us  Mr.  Douglas 
came  to  me  to  tell  me  he  had  been  again  to  the 
sufferer  and  found  the  poor  fellow  conscious.  He 
begged  Mr.  Douglas  to  remain  near  him  until  the 
end.  The  doctor  called,  with  his  report.  He 
thought  it  possible  the  wounded  man  might  linger  a 
few  weeks.  And  so  it  has  been,  and  Mr.  Douglas 
is  still  with  us. 

We  have  been  much  in  the  cottage,  and  it  is  touch- 
ing to  see  this  withered  human  plant  revive  in  the 
sunshine  of  the  old  Laird's  kindliness.  O  the  blessed 


96  CHRIS  TMA  S-DA  Y. 

influence  of  a  human  faith  !  The  poor  bruised 
heart  trusts  this  human  goodness,  and  so  is  learn- 
ing to  trust  the  Divine  goodness. 

The  physical  life  of  this  poor  waif  is  slowly 
waning,  but  the  moral  life  is  dawning.  I  wish  you 
might  see  him  now,  neat  in  appearance,  gentle  in 
manner — in  a  word,  humanized  ;  and  with  Agnes's 
little  friend  playing  beside  him. 

Do  you  remember  two  circumstances  which  I 
related  to  you  at  midnight  in  your  room  at  Grey- 
castle,  after  that  sad  Christmas  evening  in  the  cot- 
tage ? 

One  was  Mr.  Douglas's  impressive  question  in 
the  sick-room,  "  Do  you  know  the  love  of  God  ?  " 

The  other  circumstance  was  the  poor  fellow's 
excitement  in  listening  to  Agnes's  Shepherd  hymn. 
In  his  delirium  he  thought  himself  a  child  again, 
"keeping  "  sheep  upon  the  moor. 

But  he  explained  to  Mr.  Douglas  later  that  he 
had  been  a  shepherd's  son,  and  how  the  hymn  con- 
fused his  troubled  brain.  Then  he  added  :  "Tell 
me  about  the  Shepherd  in  that  story."  So  Mr. 
Douglas  told  him  in  his  simple  way. 

Thus  weeks  have  gone,  the  wanderer  nursed  and 
cheered  in  the  shepherd's  home  by  all,  from  the 
voluble  but  kind-hearted  Mrs.  Ramsay  to  the 
youngest  bairn.  But  it  is  the  old  Laird  who  is  the 
spring  of  this  poor  creature's  life. 


THE  FAREWELL  LETTER.  97 

He  has  but  just  left  the  library,  after  relating  this 
incident.  It  seems  the  sick  stranger  has  talked 
little  of  himself,  either  of  his  career  or  his  feelings, 
beyond  this,  that  he  had  been  a  sailor,  and  led  a 
wild,  roving  life.  And  since  the  mention  of  Agnes's 
hymn  he  has  listened  with  pleasure  to  any  words 
from  Mr.  Douglas,  but  this  morning  he  said  just 
this — no  more  :  "  Mr.  Douglas,  I  ken  the  love  o' 
God." 

Is  not  this  enough  ? 

It  is  so  late  that  I  must  say  good-night.  But  be- 
side me,  on  the  table,  lies  a  letter,  by  this  evening's 
post,  from  the  Archdeacon.  It  closes  with  one  of 
his  favorite  quotations.  I  send  the  extract,  ray  ab- 
sent friend,  for  your  comfort  and  mine,  and  with 
a  thought  of  this  touching  friendship  between  the 
Laird  and  the  wanderer,  begun  in  the  shepherd's 
cottage  that  Christmas-night. 

"  Let  us  trust.     We  do  not  meet  and  part  by 
chance.     We  move  like  stars.     We  do  not  choose 
those  we  love.    God  has  chosen  them  for  us." 
Ever  yours, 

M.  G.  E. 


98  CHRISTMAS-DAY. 


NOTE. 

I  have  ventured  to  give  the  story  of  St.  Christopher  in  the 
language  of  a  clergj'inan  of  the  Church  of  England,  revered 
amongst  us.  It  is  an  extract  from  a  sermon  addressed  to  chil- 
dren. 

My  apology  for  the  liberties  taken  with  Richter's  dreams 
(I  include  the  story  told  by  the  Professor  as  his  personal 
experience),  and  with  Mr.  Browning's  poem  of  "Christmas- 
Eve,"  must  be  that  these  changes  were  necessary  to  adapt 
them  for  my  purpose. 

The  following  expressions  are  borrowed  :  those  used  by  the 
Archdeacon  with  regard  to  Mr.  Douglas  (in  the  first  chapter 
of  the  second  part),  "  I  cannot  incarnate  him  "  ;  and  again, 
"  The  siar  shone  through  him,  and  I  expected  him  to  disap- 
pear at  cock-crow"  ;  and  also  the  question,  "  Do  you  know 
the  love  of  God  ?  "  and  the  answer  given  in  the  letter. 

The  remaining  poems  are  well  known,  and  require  no  ex- 
planation. 

A.  D.  F. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
^  date  stamped  below 


REC 


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APR  09  1990 

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uIFORNIA  f 


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